


King, Joker, Jack

by ReduxCath



Series: The Slutty Playwright [1]
Category: Fate/Apocrypha, Fate/Grand Order
Genre: Biting, Body Hair, Chains, Kinky, M/M, Rimjobs, Rough Sex, Shibari, Threesome - M/M/M, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:11:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26470171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReduxCath/pseuds/ReduxCath
Summary: So I was on twitter one day and a friend and I were talking about Shakespeare-daddy.He was like "Shakespeare's used to being shared around"And that just got my wheels turning. So yeah, enjoy a bunch of men (and possibly women too) taking advantage of an eternally horny writer.Mage, this is your fault.I also blame TypeMoon for giving me the best craft essence in the game.
Relationships: William Shakespeare | Caster of Red/ Vlad III | Berserker, William Shakespeare | Caster of Red/Moriarty | Archer, mentions of Semiramis/Shakespeare (one-sided)
Series: The Slutty Playwright [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1924300
Comments: 3
Kudos: 17





	King, Joker, Jack

“Aren’t you going to fold, good sir?” He turned his hazel eyes towards the pale Wallachian and sent him a sultry grin. “I’ve been counting the cards. The chances of you having a good hand are…” With a hand delicately weathered by the quill and familiar touch of paper, William Shakespeare made a gesture.

“No, I’m perfectly fine, William.” Vladimir said plainly, and took a sip of his drink. His long hair bunched up a little as he moved his arm, and Shakespeare wondered if it would spill over his shoulder like a curtain. No, it was tied with a simple knot at the end, and the angle wasn’t nearly enough for it to move back.

“Suit yourself.” The playwright said calmly, and cursed his bad luck.

“I thought we agreed that we wouldn’t be counting cards this round?” Moriarty’s deep voice rumbled as cigarette smoke escaped his mouth in artful coils, almost like the roses he liked to summon as he fought. Pushing up his glasses with a gesture far too delicate for someone so deadly, one could almost believe this ‘beach grandpa’ attitude he wanted to play around with. He had gone so far as to don a shirt from Master Fujimaru’s Hawai’i (though, as Hawai’ian warriors would probably like to argue, such fashion only sported the bare minimum of their culture).

Of course, that could only work for people that didn’t know him and didn’t see him tear apart monsters and men with sadistic ease. “We did, and then we all proceeded to anyway.” Vladimir took a plantain chip from the center of the table and slid it onto his tongue.

“Or—do you mean that _you_ aren’t counting cards, sir archer?” Shakespeare balanced his own plantain chip on his fingers, almost as if he were in a casino.

The elderly man (in appearance, after all, considering they were all either fictions or long dead) coughed into his fist, said nothing, yet a nice hint of pink dusted his cheeks. Shakespeare caught Vladimir’s sideline gaze, and the two men shared a silent pair of grins. “Now I feel bad!” He chuckled.

“You should.” The archer raised a white eyebrow. Shakespeare waved it away.

“How’s about we wrap it up, anyways? These chips aren’t nearly filling enough.” Vladimir spoke just as Shakespeare felt his stomach start to growl. Clearly wanting to hurry things along and go get an actual summer lunch, the pale man presented his cards with no pomp or circumstance. “Four of a kind.” He presented four 8’s, arranged in alternating color, accompanied by a lone 3.

Shakespeare pushed out a smile. “My oh my, what a play at the final hour.” He leaned on his hand and wiggled his eyebrows at the lancer. Vladimir, for his part, was a good sport and simply took a sip of his drink, opening one eye and meeting Shakespeare’s gaze.

“Says the man who wanted him to fold.” Moriarty chuckled.

“Methinks someone might not have a very good hand.” Vladimir mused, his upper lip putting pressure on his straw.

And Shakespeare’s smile disappeared with a scowl taking over its place. “Oh, as if _you_ do.” But it was a weak retort. After all, Shakespeare had been counting all their cards diligently for the past half an hour. If he had been able to somehow nudge dear old Vladimir to fold, he would’ve been able to at least come out in second, but—

“Would a Straight Flush satisfy you, William?” Moriarty’s moustache crinkled with amusement as he put down his hand. A perfect gradient of hearts from 6 to 10. Quite the romantic hand.

“Salutations, my good men.” The deep, powerful voice of the one and only King of Conquerors resounded behind them. Shakespeare turned around and saw him dressed for the occasion in a way that was very much _him._ It was like the hair revealed by his open shirt was made to lead straight down to his shining red speedo. And judging by the way that his favored man (one of the two, anyways) clung lightly to his arm, it was having the desired effect.

Or perhaps, Waver Velvet wasn’t as fascinated by the carnal attributes of this fine male specimen as he was by his smile that shone like the sun itself. “We were thinking of going to go get a bite. Would you like to come?”

“We’re about to wrap up this game, friend.” Vladimir stretched, letting the sunlight touch his glistening vampiric skin. “Ohh, that’s good.”

“William has yet to show us his hand.”

The two men behind him scanned the table quickly, and Shakespeare had to take Iskandar’s low, rumbling laugh. “I fought bravely.” He said, cheeks pink as he turned his nose up. The cheeky smiles of his friends were really rubbing it in.

“Then you should bravely face the result of the game.” Mr. Velvet teased. He was leaning next to him. Shakespeare batted at him, noticed how he looked like the perfect wife with his long hair tied up in that bun.

Perhaps, most men tended to look like good wives next to Iskandar, though.

“Did you know he was counting the cards?” Moriarty teased.

“And he still lost?” Iskandar kept on chuckling. “Ah, probability...!”

“I fought bravely, I said!” Shakespeare protested once more as he let out his measly three of a kind. The 3 of spades and the 3 of hearts seemed to mock him. “And Vladimir was counting too!” He pointed an accusatory finger towards the man who had already stood up and was now enjoying the warmth of the sun to his fullest.

“Ngh…Me? Count cards?” He turned to the pair of lovers. “Sir Iskandar, would an honorable warrior such as me truly—”

“He’s lying~~~!”

_But even this annoyance, even this scene with a bunch of friends laughing and teasing and joking around, was a type of happiness in itself._

_Even a scene like this, where Shakespeare found himself on the loser’s side of the table, let him smile and relax._

_A scene like this, with the waves of the ocean singing their song only a couple dozen feet away._

The playwright leaned on the counter of the shop and bit into his wiener dog. A modern commodity, but he didn’t dislike it. “If only they made the buns a little taller, I could put more toppings on them.”

“But isn’t this like writing? If you put in too much detail, the readers get lost and bored.” Moriarty, ever elegant, used a plastic fork to eat his fries.

“If you do it well, mr. character, you can make an audience fall in love with any amount of detail.”

“Oh really now?”

Their shoulders were touching.

Hazel eyes met grey ones.

And, as though he had no shame within him, Moriarty stuck out his fork, a fry stabbed through, and gently moved it towards Shakespeare’s lips.

The archer, as though he had no shame, let his smile slip into a territory that people ( _sane,_ respectable people) usually reserved for times when they were alone.

Shakespeare, proud and petulant, took the chance to steal some of the man’s fries from his basket, turned on his heel, and stepped into the warm sand, leaving the archer stunned for a moment. “I’m still cross at you, James.” He spoke as he chewed.

“Oh, friend, you don’t mean that.” Moriarty quickly caught up to him. “My luck with the cards ebbs and flows like the waves.”

“Make it ebb more often.” He had lost a fair bit of money in that game. And sure, he had no _need_ of money now, but it was the principle of it all. He lost a game, so principle demanded he be sour about it.

As it demanded that he let Moriarty hook his arm around his neck. “Would it help if I let you write a play about me?”

Quite meta, wasn’t it? The character asking the playwright to make a stage for them. But it was fine, after all. _This_ character had a life and dignity of his own. “I’ll…” The prospect of putting his quill to work set his blood flowing. “…consider it.” He took a bite of his hot—

“What if I write on you instead?” A hot breath graced his ear.

Shakespeare choked on the sausage for a moment while Moriarty snickered and held him upright. “Need help, there?” A familiar voice sounded out from behind a palm tree.

Shakespeare grunted one final time, silently took his refilled drink from Vladimir’s hand. It was cold, colored bright pink. Lemonade. As he pushed the liquid down into his throat to clear it, Moriarty let him go. “Poor William here feels sad about his loss today.”

“Why?” Vladimir asked, acting confused. “He graced us with that pretty pink blush. I’d call that a success.”

The two men grinned, and Shakespeare coughed again. Wiping his mouth with the back of his arm and feeling the hairs brush against his lips, the Victorian felt he had to respond to that. “I only reacted that way…” He tilted his head to the side, gesturing a ways over to a sandy area where a large man with red hair was currently spiking a volleyball that sang with mana. “…because I was caught off guard.”

“What’s wrong with our fellows watching our games?” Vladimir asked him as he took a long sip of his colored drink.

“Nothing in theory…” He reached the halfway point of his schnitzel, let himself enjoy the taste of onions on his tongue. “…But I was having a good time with the two of you alone.” And he had, indeed, been enjoying himself famously with these two men specifically. Did he not have the right to want to keep a nice, private moment with these two good sirs?

“Oh, my cup doth overflow.” Moriarty remarked as he finished his (depleted fries) and expertly shot the empty container a few dozen feet away into an open trashcan, surprising a woman that had been standing next to it.

“Good shot.” The other men said.

Shakespeare enjoyed the walk back to the hotel as the two men walked with him—one arm around his neck, the other around his waist.

The moon was a gorgeous crescent, and the stars shone gorgeously in the sky. Even a perfectionist like Titania would find no fault with this atmosphere, with the soft sounds of the waves rolling far below the high floor where Shakespeare presently stood.

“William—” Again, his name. The two men knew how much it made him race whenever he was called by his first name. And in such a tone of voice—Heavens, if he didn’t know any better (and right now, drunk and in his drawers, he did _not_ ), he would assume that Vladimir was trying to seduce him.

He drank the feeling of the vampire’s lips on his skin. Would he bite his shoulder? His cock stood at the idea. Would he see Vladimir III’s more voracious sexual appetite tonight? It was rare, but there were times when the Wallachian felt comfortable enough to indulge in his desire to use his teeth, when the rumors of the world didn’t hurt him. In this form, he had ‘accepted’ his state as a vampire, but Shakespeare knew the man far too much, and respected him far too much, to ask him to bring that side out. In a sense, leaving it up to Vladimir’s own whim made his teeth an even better treat whenever they did come into play.

Shakespare’s skin prickled deliciously at Vladimir’s low growl. It wasn’t like the great Impaler didn’t know how to please a man without his teeth, in any case. “You’re drunk, Vladimir.” He turned his gaze to his right, where Moriarty leaned against the glass railing with an amused smile. Cheeky. Those grey eyes watched as the Wallachian’s long, strong fingers gently moved up Shakespeare’s arms and caressed his wrists. “And _you_ are enjoying yourself far too much, young man!!”

“I’m _young_ now, am I?” The two men chuckled as Moriarty took his final sip of bourbon and let his cup rest on the simple table. “Compliment me more. We’ll see where that gets you.”

“Wouldn’t you two rather _earn_ this?” They had played for money before. And he had given them his bet. Yet now he felt Vladimir’s muscles bunch up as mana coursed through them, groaned when those pale hands snaked their way under his shirt and toyed with his nipples. Shakespeare, face full of that pink these two men loved, tried one more time to draw out the deliciousness of the encounter. “A nice game of strip poker would go well with a fine night like this, don’t you think?”

“You talk too much. _”_ The vampire licked at the Englishman’s earlobe, and Shakespeare’s blasted knees trembled as though he were a young maiden catching the eye of a handsome suitor in a ball.

“Don’t worry, _William._ ” Moriarty dragged the smooth back of his nails up Shakespeare’s leaking tent, and with a simple tease, a mere _suggestion_ of a movement, released his straining cock from the binds of his clothing. The man hissed when the night air hit his throbbing pink cock, and those nails only made him leak more shining liquid. “We’ll enjoy ourselves nice and slow, like you like.”

“Don’t you mean you’ll plug yourselves into me and ruin me all night long?” He mused as he caught the raw desire in Moriarty’s grey eyes, the way he was dropping every pretense.

“Do you want that?” He could _hear_ Vladimir’s smile in his whisper. The lancer sighed in contentment. “You have such a fine pelt on you…” His voice adopted that low timbre that made Shakespeare’s ass feel hot with need, and his cold hands relished the feeling of the playwright’s abundant chest hair. “…I don’t know if I want to skin this beast or play with him.”

“Y-You’re such a perverted—” But he couldn’t speak properly anymore when those teeth gently bit at the nape of his neck.

“ _Mine._ ” And Shakespeare let himself grow limp, because it meant that Moriarty would also move in for his piece, and maybe even lift his legs up and fuck him good.

“You’re such a tease, William.” The archer cupped his cheek, then pinched his chin with a rough finger. “I wanted to fuck you so badly in one of those restrooms down by the beach today. We could’ve done it, you know.” So _that’s_ why he was so flirtatious with him today. Shakespeare felt himself grow weak at the idea of being used so readily by this man. He could almost see the scene in his mind’s stage—see the way that Moriarty would’ve pushed him against the peeling paint of the bathroom doors and pound his ass until he sang that song he liked to hear.

“And you weren’t going to invite me?” Vladimir glared, hand quickly moving away from Shakespeare’s chest and grabbing at Moriarty’s shapely behind. “Selfish.”

“I deserve a better venue, don’t you agree? Something of higher quality.” Shakespeare’s arms remembered how to move, and he pulled Moriarty closer by the scruff of his shirt so that he could get at that delicious Adam’s apple.

The two other men moaned for a moment, paused. “Not really.” They sounded quite cheerful in their assertion.

“Knaves.” He grumbled as he closed his eyes and lapped at Moriarty’s sweat.

And then—for a strange, lonely, terrifying moment—Shakespeare felt that no one was holding him.

His eyes shot open—and his muscles and skin immediately registered the pressure and bite of chains, expertly placed over his body. He wobbled a bit as he found a position that would let him stand.

Turning up his head, the playwright saw his two friend, hard and throbbing, grinning as they looked him up and down. “W-What’s the meaning of—”

“See? I told you.” Vladimir rubbed at Moriarty’s glistening cock with an expert hand as he nipped his earlobe with his incisors.

“What _a_ sight.” Moriarty rumbled as he took a long whiff of Vladimir’s shining hair.

But this was too strange! Shakespeare’s cheeks burned as he struggled against the bonds that held him, and when a gentle breeze blew and hit his needy cock, he trembled. In this position, he was less like a maiden at a ball and more like a restrained, horny deer. “What are you giggling about over there?!” He grunted as he tried (and deliciously failed) to break his arms free from his back.

Moriarty stepped closer while Vladimir went back inside their shared room. “I was told,” the older man held his chin again, made Shakespeare stare into his hungry eyes. “that you had quite the time fighting in the War of Red and Black. A peculiar set of circumstances, a peculiar number of Servants…” His eyes dropped down to Shakespeare’s leaking cock, and he rubbed it with the back of his nails again, making the playwright shake with unmet need. “…but it looks like that wasn’t what mattered most.”

“A-A lot of things mattered about that War!” He protested, pushed his face up to Moriarty’s.

And, like a good friend, Moriarty acquiesced, didn’t cross the line between teasing and actual insult. “Oh, I’m sure.” He kissed Shakespeare gently on the cheek, kept rubbing his cock with the back of his nails—made the man go near-crazy with his relentless, expert teasing. There were reasons why he was the only person who could get a rise out of the famed Sherlock Holmes, after all. “I heard,” he was so gentle suddenly, and there was Shakespeare again, right back at feeling like a delicate maiden. “that you were very brave.”

Maybe he should’ve kissed him back at the beach after all.

“James—”

Maybe he should’ve shared those fries with him instead.

“ _Yes_?”

He felt warm all over. “I—"

And then—glorious, angry satisfaction. Moriarty squeezed his cock and jerked it fast. It was quick, and it didn’t send him over the edge. But Shakespeare had been given a taste of that power, and he wanted more.

Hunger filled the Englishman’s eyes and he angled his teeth with the intent to rip off that fucking shirt—

But he stumbled forward, barely managed to catch himself. Moriarty was no longer on the balcony. Shakespeare whipped around, cock and face hotter than ever. “You’re so incorrigible!”

“Naturally. It’s _elementary_ , right?” And he had the gall to look so fucking handsome as he stole his rival’s phrase and dipped it into these sultry waters.

But never mind that—Shakespeare had needs! And they would be met one way or the other! “Stop being such fucking _cock_ teases—” the two men snickered as he wiggled his feet, then gave up and proceeded to try and jump his way back into their arms. His feet landed back inside the tatami floor of their Japanese-styled room. “—and touch me properl—wahh!” He had miscalculated in his heated state, jumped with too much inclination forward. Shakespeare fell to the ground, bracing himself for impact.

A pillow protected his chin. “James, my friend, you’re supposed to let him wriggle around. That’s how he likes it.” The Lancer of Black was stroking his proud lance, licking his lips. When Shakespeare glared up at him, he winked. “Or so I was _told_.”

“S-Silence, you scoundrel, fool…” But he couldn’t hide the embarrassment on his face, and sat back on his legs, feeling the chains press against his calves, his ass, and his knees. It seemed like his pose and his facial expression were too much for Vladimir also, for a chain materialized itself around his neck, and he was suddenly pulled up and into the lancer’s sharper embrace. His kiss involved more teeth (much more teeth), but it set Shakespeare’s blood ablaze.

They broke apart with a strand of saliva connecting their mouths. “You’re so adorable.”

The word ‘adorable’ made his clench his legs together as an image of Vladimir taking his hips for a spin invaded his mind. “Oh, stop it. Flattery will get you nowhere.”

“That’s a lie.” He cocked an eyebrow.

Shakespeare nodded. “Well, of _course._ ”

And with a rough hand, he was turned around again. Moriarty pinched his nipples, both men bit and lapped at his neck, and Shakespeare trembled as he felt the chains tighten just enough to really get him going.

But then, he felt pressure on the inside of his legs. “As much as I love seeing you like this, I need a big more access.” Shakespeare opened his mouth, but before he could protest the increasing bite he felt at his thighs, Moriarty made the chains around his legs shatter. The links reassembled themselves as restraints around his ankles, and as his legs were lifted up, the older man kneeled in between them—and spread them roughly.

“F-Fucking—”

“What a foul mouth you have.” Shakespeare could only try to look down towards Moriarty as he spoke and licked at his leaking dick. “Is it from sucking so many cocks? Or from writing so many dirty plays?”

“You’re the one on his knees right now, friend.” Vladimir smiled against Shakespeare’s beard, bit the hairs to turn his head and kiss him again.

“True.”

Shakespeare couldn’t help the moan that escaped his mouth, that Vladimir swallowed with rapturous glee. How could a man keep quiet when a tongue danced atop his second head? The moans grew sweeter and stickier as Moriarty’s mouth engulfed his entire length, as his nose buried itself in his hairs.

“Good boy.” Vladimir whispered in his ears, sounding so much like one of Shakespeare’s long-gone writing tutors in days past that the playwright melted then and there into an eager mouth.

Hearing Moriarty cough was a rush in and of itself. He and Vladimir broke apart, turned their attention to the man below, who raised an eyebrow. “Quick on the draw, tonight, it seems.”

“You should’ve dragged him over to that bathroom while you had the chance.” Vladimir snickered.

“Why, so he could choke just the same?” Shakespeare wiggled his eyebrows, and both men laughed.

Shakespeare stopped laughing, however, when his legs were pried open further and a wet, flexible thing touched his opening.

“You’ve offended him.” Vladimir licked at Shakespeare’s throat. The playwright moaned at the expert way the archer ate him out. If the key to getting serviced so deliciously was getting Moriarty spiffed, he would have to do it more often…

…It was hard to think with these chains biting his skin and his hairs so well.

“I heard,” Vladimir rumbled lowly in his ear as the chains tightened even more, as Shakespeare’s arms felt strained and heavenly. “that your Master in that War used to do this to you often.”

Shakespeare made a noise in his throat at the mere implication that Amakusa Shirou Tokisada would’ve bound him with this intention. “I-It was actually his lady.”

“Oh?” The vampire’s lips turned up with mischief. He held Shakespeare firmly as he trembled from the wet, warm feeling that was fighting to push further and further up inside his body. “Quite a beautiful woman, right?”

Hazel eyes turned towards green ones. “W-What are you getting at---shit!!” A particularly _good_ lick.

Vladimir purred in his ears, massaged his sore nipples before he pinched them again. “Did you ever want her? I bet you liked it whenever she tied you up.”

Shakespeare bit his lips. Embarrasment coursed through him as his cock throbbed with renewed interest. “W-Well, I would’ve never even attempted to court her under those conditions…” He closed his eyes, sighed, felt relief on his cheeks when Vladimir’s cool tongue licked the pink skin. If only he’d comb his fingers through his beard—oh, _oh Lord._ He sighed, shuddering in contentment. “I—I may have become engorged once or twice in her presence?”

“Did she enjoy it?” Those sharp green eyes seemed to want to strip everything away from Shakespeare and fill him to the brim with pleasure.

“If one announces their interest by calling the other party a ‘filthy pig’.”

Both men laughed, because it really _was_ fucking hilarious. Fighting in Wars often yielded incredible situations like that, scenes which exposed secrets of the characters involved. And it was always such a treat to see regal, mighty kings and queens have to reckon with the base face of the common masses, the desires that their station so often demanded they repress (or exploit).

“Tell me, friend. If you had to choose between her and us…” Two fingers walked down his chest, over the hairs that peeked from the corners of the chains. “…who would you choose?”

As that cold hand gripped Shakespeare’s dick, he grunted from the dual stimulation. “I—I believe the question to be q-quite unfair to Madame Semiramis.” It was getting hard to form coherent sentences. The chains were so tight around his body, god _dammit_. “It’s two against one.”

“Then add that swordsman priest, if it pleases you.” He shrugged, as though the question were casual.

“I will say, getting a chance to bed the Queen of Assyria would not be a bad way to spend an evening.” The wetness withdrew, and Moriarty stood once more, proud and filled with desire. As he pushed forward and made Shakespeare hang more vertically, their cocks rubbed at his entrance.

“As…” He took a deep breath as Moriarty gently grasped his throat, and he _pushed_ against the chains that held his arms. “As gorgeous as she is, I should choose the both of you.”

_After all, they worked so well together._

Two hungry grins, two ascents of desire—and they forced their way inside of his entrance at the same time.

Forgetting the pain of his arms behind him, Shakespeare arched his back, moaned, cursed—and broke that part of his restraints. His sore arms now free, his hands immediately went to grasp at the backs of their heads, harshly gripping their hair as their fat cocks pierced him over and over. “ _Shut up and_ move, _goddamit…!_ ”

Moriarty smiled at him, licked the tip of his nose. “Ah, ah, ah.” They both stopped moving, only the tips of their dicks remaining inside. Desperate and needy and selfish, Shakespeare wiggled in vain as he tried to push himself back down onto that arrow and that spear. “You’re not the one in charge here, boy.”

“Why don’t you tell us how much you want it, William?” Nails dug into his chest, raised welts partly hidden by the chains and the hair. Vladimir whispered into his ear before biting the defenseless cartilage. “Tell us what you want.”

“Come oooonn, just do it!!” He mewled, utterly at their mercy, his bravado completely broken.

“Is that what you want, William?”

“ _William_.”

The needy whine that tore itself from his throat came from a place he usually didn’t have any access to.

It was hard to recognize the noise as his own.

But it was more than enough to get his two men going.

And they began to move again, in a rhythm so rough and perfect that it left Shakespeare with no defense as his chest filled painfully with air, restricted by the incredible chains around his body. Drool began to escape the corner of his lips, but Vladimir and Moriarty were there, ready to lick it all, ready to _bite_ at his neck and leave welts that only Victorian clothing could ever hope to cover up.

“Mfff, a rose by any other name might taste as sweet.” Moriarty grumbled in his ear.

Shakespeare felt the offense of one of his greatest works being bastardized mix with the rush of knowing just how wet these two men were leaving him. He couldn’t even speak coherently anymore.

And, eventually, after much fuss, they shot their loads into his body.

It wasn’t the feeling of the hot wet liquid entering his body that did him in, nor the sensation of their mana flowing into his circuits.

It was their sweat-covered brows, their tightly shut eyes, and the way they said his name over and over as they jerked like needy, freshly married men touching a woman for the first time.

These two men were no such virgins, of course.

They’d be up and at it again, soon enough. Sessions with them always lasted until morning.

But as he lay on the ground, gasping for breath, held in between their sweaty bodies, Shakespeare let himself act sweet, and stroked the backs of their heads, kissed their cheeks.

In a couple of minutes, they’d be up and at it, spit roasting him without mercy, making him pay for such a fanciful and gentle indiscretion. Asking him where the hell he got off, treating them like maidens, touching them with that kind of feeling.

But right now, they took it, licking his neck and ears, whispering their raunchy plans and chuckling at all they had in store for the poor, slutty playwright.

“My ass hurts…” He whined. But all the response he got was two sets of fingers digging hungrily at the wet hole.

Insatiable bastards.  



End file.
